


all those years of hope

by groundopenwide



Series: lads on tour [3]
Category: Bastille (Band), Music RPF
Genre: Gen, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: Charlie has fans now, sort of. It’s...weird.
Relationships: Charlie Barnes/Ed Wetenhall
Series: lads on tour [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805506
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	all those years of hope

Charlie has fans now, sort of. It’s...weird. 

He never—not in a million years—thought he’d be making music for anyone but himself.  _ Geekk— _ well, he doesn’t talk about that one.  _ More Stately Mansions— _ that was him shouting into an empty void, releasing music to nothing and no one, screaming into a mic for no other reason than to scream. __

Now he’s got  _ Oceanography.  _ A project with a purpose. He’s touring it all over the UK with two of his best mates, playing shows that are just his. All his. Tiny shows, shit shows, but shows nonetheless. He’s got people asking if he’ll ever come to their city, talking about how excited they are that the album is out, streaming his songs on Spotify. He’s got a thousand monthly listeners on there. (Not much, in the grand scheme of things, but still more than he ever thought he’d get.)

It’s hard, sometimes, to remember that what he’s doing matters. That  _ he  _ matters. Dan had joked around with an interviewer once, said that Charlie had the best voice in the band. Charlie’d wanted to text him afterwards, say something like,  _ how can I have the best voice in the band when I’m not really part of it? _

(None of it is his. Not the lyrics, the music, the artwork, the lights flashing in his face, the videos playing on the giant screen behind his head every night. It’s fun, it’s amazing, but in this distant sort of way, like only part of him is present for it all and the other part, the real part, is floating overhead, watching all of it happen with—not disinterest, but disappointment, maybe.  _ This isn’t me,  _ that part of him thinks.)

But who is he to complain? He’s got a job. No, not just a job—a dream job. He gets to play his guitar in a world-famous band and get paid for it. What’s so wrong with that? He’s been to who knows how many countries. His bosses double as some of his best mates. The songs are great and sometimes people in the crowd shout his name. He’s still cobbling together money to cover his own studio fees and barely has the time or energy to focus on songwriting, but it’s worth it.

( _ It’s worth it,  _ he’d thought the day he told Ben and Ed he was moving to London.  _ It’s worth it,  _ he’d told himself when he went months with nothing but a  _ happy birthday  _ text from Ed, both of them too busy, Ed trying to drag himself from the wreckage of Fish Tank’s demise and Charlie touring the states with Bastille.  _ It’s worth it,  _ he convinces himself now, even though looking at Ed across stage every night feels a lot like staring at a ghost, a reminder of what could have been.)

He called Ed. Just a few months ago, after Royal Albert Hall. That show—it was the moment that everything finally seemed to come together, at least for a moment. Charlie the artist and Charlie the touring guitarist, two halves turned whole. He’d finished his opening set and sat down in the dressing room and hadn’t even realized he was crying ‘till Ed spoke through the phone, soft and clear in his ear,  _ Charlie, mate, you alright? _

They hadn’t talked in awhile. Not since Christmas, probably. Hadn’t seen each other in much longer. Charlie’d dialed him without thinking, struck by a sudden fit of longing so sharp and prominent it’d nearly knocked him out of his seat. 

_ Wish you could have been here,  _ he said _. (I hate doing this without you. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry for all of it _ —he didn’t say that part.)

Ed was quiet for a long time before he said,  _ yeah, me too. _

Tonight’s venue isn’t Royal Albert Hall. It’s a shoebox made of horrendous floral wallpaper and ancient wooden floors; they’ll be lucky if a hundred people show up. And Charlie doesn’t have to call Ed, doesn’t have to miss him, because he’s here, right here, soundchecking his guitar with that scrunched up look on his face he always gets when he’s concentrating too hard. It feels like a second chance. One that Charlie’ll probably fuck up like he always does, but for now—well, for now, things are mostly alright. 


End file.
